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ososphobia · 1 day ago

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Not to mention how much of a freak we are here.

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ososphobia · 3 days ago

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the art of the hunt.

pairing: hannibal lecter x reader

summary: hunting a human with hannibal!! and more..

word count: 1k

content warning: graphic violence, cannibalism, psychological manipulation, stalking, knife play/blood play, sensory overlap.

[12:17AM, PATAPSCO STATE PARK - BALTIMORE]

The forest exhaled around them—damp earth, decaying leaves, the faintest whisper of panic clinging to the air like cologne. Hannibal didn’t need to glance at his watch to know the time; the moon’s position told him everything. His gloved fingers flexed around the handle of his knife, the bone grip worn smooth from years of use.

Beside him, you adjusted your stance, quieter now than you'd been on their your hunt. Progress. Hannibal’s lips curled.

"Our Mr. Vogelsong is late," he murmured, tilting his head to catch the distant crunch of leaves under clumsy footsteps. "Rude, but predictable. He always takes the long route home after his Thursday night poker games." A pause. "Losing puts him in a temper. His wife’s restraining order mentions broken wine glasses. Teeth."

The wind shifted, carrying the sour tang of sweat and nicotine. Your breath hitched—not with nerves, but recognition. Hannibal’s smile sharpened.

"You remember the rules?"

A beat. Then: "No hesitation. No wasted movement. Make it…"

"Beautiful," Hannibal finished, handing you the knife with the reverence of a priest offering communion. The blade caught the moonlight, winking. "Shall we teach him manners?"

[1:43AM, PATAPSCO STATE PARK - BALTIMORE]

The corpse sprawled between them like a broken marionette, its strings cut by your precise strokes. Hannibal observed the tableau—arterial spray fanning across frost-kissed ferns, the gaping maw of the throat wound, the way your chest heaved with something beyond exertion.

"Lovely work," he praised, stepping over a pooling rivulet of blood to cup your jaw. His thumb smeared crimson across your bottom lip. "Your technique has improved. The third rib is always the sweetest leverage point, isn’t it?"

Your pupils swallowed their irises, your knife hand steady now, certain. Hannibal’s pulse gave a traitorous throb.

With practiced ease, he knelt beside the body, parting flesh with his own blade until the heart lay exposed, glistening in its cradle of bone. He lifted it, tendrils of connective tissue clinging like cobwebs.

"A token," he said, placing the organ in your palm. Your fingers curled instinctively, staining red. "Not as precious as yours, of course, but… sentimental."

When he kissed you, the taste of copper bloomed between their lips. You bit back—hard enough to draw blood—and Hannibal laughed against your mouth.

"Next Thursday," he breathed, "we’ll hunt someone with better taste in wine."

The heart pulsed its last beats against your palm, warm and slippery with blood. Hannibal watched, enthralled, as your fingers instinctively tightened around the organ - your calloused grip leaving imprints in the soft muscle. His own breath came just slightly quicker now, the only outward sign of his arousal.

"Still warm," he murmured, pressing close enough that his coat sleeves soaked up the blood on your arms. "Can you feel him fading?" His lips ghosted over your temple. "The precise moment when a soul becomes just…meat."

The forest held its breath around them. Even the cicadas had gone silent.

your free hand found his waistcoat, twisting in the fabric, pulling him in until the brass buttons pressed cold through your bloodstained shirt. Hannibal made a pleased sound in his throat - half chuckle, half growl - and captured your mouth again, less a kiss than a claiming.

When he finally pulled back, a thin strand of crimson connected their lips. His tongue darted out to catch it, eyes never leaving theirs.

"We should get you cleaned up," he said mildly, as if commenting on the weather rather than the fact they were both drenched in another man's lifeblood. "I'm preparing osso buco tomorrow. The veal will be perfectly paired with…" His gaze flicked meaningfully to the heart in your hand. "A reduction."

His arm slid around your waist as he guided you back toward the tree line, stepping over Vogelsong's vacant chest cavity with the casual grace of a man strolling through his own dining room. The knife in his other hand still dripped onto the fallen leaves.

"Tell me," he purred, nose buried in your hair, inhaling the scent of sweat and iron, "was it good for you?"

The night swallowed your retreating figures, leaving only crimson footprints and the hollow-eyed corpse to mark your passing. Somewhere in the distance, an owl cried - but by then, you guys were already laughing.

[2:30AM, HANNIBAL'S TOWNHOUSE - BALTIMORE]

The steam from the shower still curled around the bathroom door when Hannibal guided you onto the tufted stool in front of his vanity. The marble countertop gleamed under soft candlelight, scattered with bone-handled brushes and imported French oils. His hands, always steady, always precise, worked the plush towel through your damp hair with the same care he might give to patting dry a 1947 Château Cheval Blanc.

"You missed a spot," he murmured, thumb swiping behind your ear where a single streak of pink-tinged water still clung. His silk robe gaped slightly with the motion, revealing the fresh scratches down his chest - four parallel lines, still raised and angry. Evidence.

The scent of bergamot and blood orange mixed unsettlingly with the faint copper still lingering in the steam. Hannibal inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, as he reached for the comb.

"Your technique tonight was… inspired," he said, dragging the teeth through tangled strands. A sharp tug when he hit a knot. "Though I noticed you hesitated when he begged. Three seconds precisely." Another tug, softer this time. "We'll have to rectify that."

Outside, Baltimore slept. Inside, the refrigerator hummed cheerfully.

Hannibal set down the comb, his palms sliding to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to catch your reflection in the mirror. The candlelight pooled in your pupils, in the healing bite mark on your lower lip. His thumbs pressed into the hinges of your jaw - not enough to hurt, just enough to feel the flutter of their pulse.

"Beautiful," he breathed, watching your throat work as you swallowed. His smile showed teeth. "Shall we see how long we can keep you looking like this?"

The robe's belt came undone with a single practiced tug. The towel joined it on the marble floor. Somewhere downstairs, a clock chimed three times.

They'd missed the news.

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ososphobia · 3 days ago

Text

the art of the hunt.

pairing: hannibal lecter x reader

summary: hunting a human with hannibal!! and more..

word count: 1k

content warning: graphic violence, cannibalism, psychological manipulation, stalking, knife play/blood play, sensory overlap.

[12:17AM, PATAPSCO STATE PARK - BALTIMORE]

The forest exhaled around them—damp earth, decaying leaves, the faintest whisper of panic clinging to the air like cologne. Hannibal didn’t need to glance at his watch to know the time; the moon’s position told him everything. His gloved fingers flexed around the handle of his knife, the bone grip worn smooth from years of use.

Beside him, you adjusted your stance, quieter now than you'd been on your hunt. Progress. Hannibal’s lips curled.

"Our Mr. Vogelsong is late," he murmured, tilting his head to catch the distant crunch of leaves under clumsy footsteps. "Rude, but predictable. He always takes the long route home after his Thursday night poker games." A pause. "Losing puts him in a temper. His wife’s restraining order mentions broken wine glasses. Teeth."

The wind shifted, carrying the sour tang of sweat and nicotine. Your breath hitched—not with nerves, but recognition. Hannibal’s smile sharpened.

"You remember the rules?"

A beat. Then: "No hesitation. No wasted movement. Make it…"

"Beautiful," Hannibal finished, handing you the knife with the reverence of a priest offering communion. The blade caught the moonlight, winking. "Shall we teach him manners?"

[1:43AM, PATAPSCO STATE PARK - BALTIMORE]

The corpse sprawled between you both like a broken marionette, its strings cut by your precise strokes. Hannibal observed the tableau—arterial spray fanning across frost-kissed ferns, the gaping maw of the throat wound, the way your chest heaved with something beyond exertion.

"Lovely work," he praised, stepping over a pooling rivulet of blood to cup your jaw. His thumb smeared crimson across your bottom lip. "Your technique has improved. The third rib is always the sweetest leverage point, isn’t it?"

Your pupils swallowed their irises, your knife hand steady now, certain. Hannibal’s pulse gave a traitorous throb.

With practiced ease, he knelt beside the body, parting flesh and ribs with his own blade and hands until the heart lay exposed, glistening in its cradle of bone. He lifted it, tendrils of connective tissue clinging like cobwebs.

"A token," he said, placing the organ in your palm. Your fingers curled instinctively, staining red. "Not as precious as yours, of course, but… sentimental."

When he kissed you, the taste of copper bloomed between your lips. You bit back—hard enough to draw blood—and Hannibal laughed against your mouth.

"Next Thursday," he breathed, "we’ll hunt someone with better taste in wine."

The heart pulsed its last beats against your palm, warm and slippery with blood. Hannibal watched, enthralled, as your fingers instinctively tightened around the organ - your calloused grip leaving imprints in the soft muscle. His own breath came just slightly quicker now, the only outward sign of his arousal.

"Still warm," he murmured, pressing close enough that his coat sleeves soaked up the blood on your arms. "Can you feel him fading?" His lips ghosted over your temple. "The precise moment when a soul becomes just…meat."

The forest held its breath around them. Even the cicadas had gone silent.

Your free hand found his waistcoat, twisting in the fabric, pulling him in until the brass buttons pressed cold through your bloodstained shirt. Hannibal made a pleased sound in his throat - half chuckle, half growl - and captured your mouth again, less a kiss than a claiming.

When he finally pulled back, a thin strand of crimson connected your lips. His tongue darted out to catch it, eyes never leaving yours.